


When Mycroft Was Stalked

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mycroft Holmes-centric, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, Stalking, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29692779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Mycroft is not feeling very well, struggling with the horrors of Sherrinford. And then he finds strange presents that allow only one conclusion - he is being stalked.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 63
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



It was a typical morning on yet another day of Mycroft Holmes’ new reality. The ‘post-Sherrinford-disaster’ reality as he not-so-fondly called it. Only in his mind, of course. He did not speak about this sore topic to anyone. Well, to whom, actually? It wasn’t as if he was in the habit of having friends he could confine in. Or in anything that resembled regular contact with the few other people outside the prison that even knew what had happened. Somehow they had been able to keep a lid on the ghastly events. People had been financially compensated, nicely put. There had been rather sinister threats to others. Both strategies had worked out – nothing had appeared online or in the newspapers.

But that did not mean that Mycroft had gotten over it. Over his horrible, awful, embarrassing failures that had almost led to Sherlock's death. If it had been his own, sod it. He wouldn’t be here to whine about it. But Sherlock had not shot him, instead he had opted for killing himself, and thinking about that still made Mycroft's knees go weak at what could have happened. What if Eurus had not interrupted his countdown? What if she had just sat back and smiled, waiting for Mycroft to be destroyed in simply another way? Because he wouldn’t have lived a single day longer if he’d had to watch Sherlock die, especially as it had been his fault, and he was sure that Eurus knew that very well. Sherlock must have been insane to risk that. But he had done so. And they had all survived thanks to his bravery. Of course, considering that there had been no plane that had to be prevented from falling from the sky, it had also been sheer stupidity by both of them…

That didn’t matter though. He had failed so badly that he could hardly look into the mirror anymore. He felt like a prick. An imbecile of the worst kind. How deep he had fallen from the arrogant heights of thinking himself to be ‘the smart one’. Not just compared to Sherlock, who had proven to be exactly that when it had mattered the most. Compared to everybody else, too. And then he had been outsmarted by his sister, had been stripped off his masks, chewed and spat out, so to speak, by the most malevolent person he had ever met and had to call his own flesh and blood.

Since these ghastly events, he had been keeping away from Sherlock as much as possible. Sherlock, who was best friends with Doctor Watson again – as if nothing had happened between them. They were living together again now that 221B Baker Street was not in ruins anymore. Probably they had glossed over the unimportant fact that John had kicked and hit his brother into hospital – which had obviously and unbelievably been Sherlock's own insane plan. Or that John had blamed Sherlock for the death of his ex-killer wife. Everything seemed to be rainbows and roses again.

Mycroft didn't like it. But of course Sherlock would never ask him for his opinion. Let alone his permission. He was too busy playing happy family with John and his child and with Eurus, whom he had visited about ten times, sometimes with their parents, who would probably never truly forgive Mycroft for his lies. Not in the past two weeks though but little brother had probably just been too busy and couldn’t wait to return to spend time with the sister who had wanted him to kill Mycroft… Long live the undeserving, right?

Mycroft sighed when he put on the kettle. Sighed again when he put the perfect amount of Earl Grey into the teapot. Sighed once more for good measure when he walked towards the front door to get the newspaper – an old-fashioned thing to do, surely, but that was he in a nutshell, he supposed, absently fumbling with his right arm garter.

And then he gasped for a change. There was the newspaper, wrapped in plastic, lying on the doorstep like every morning safe Sundays. But placed on it was an item he had not expected. A dark-blue, nearly black rose.

*****

“Are you alright, sir?” Anthea asked when she brought him his usual cup of morning coffee – strong and black as he preferred it.

“Sure,” Mycroft mumbled absently. He had opened his MI5 report on his computer and had to look for the world – or just Anthea, really – as if he was ready to start the day, just like every day.

But all he could think of was this rose.

He had brought it into his house with shivering fingers. Of course – it could have been an accident. The person who delivered his newspaper could have dropped it. Someone could have put it there in error, thinking it to be the house of someone else. But he didn't believe that.

This rose was a message. But from whom? And what was it supposed to tell him? He had looked up the meaning of rose colours. Blue or black – it was something in between – meant death. A death threat then? Who would wish him death? Well, many people might have a reason, obviously. One did not climb the ladder of power as he had done without gaining enemies. He had made hard decisions in his career. But he had never been the one to sign official orders. He was the whisperer. The powerful man in the shadows. His name was hush hush to everybody outside the holy halls of Whitehall, Downing Street and Buckingham Palace. And nobody knew where he lived. Even in the official government files, his actual address was not mentioned. His driver had been working for him for more than a decade. The most trustworthy and loyal man anyone could ever meet. He would never give his secret address away. And he was a former agent and knew how to spot a tail.

Anthea did know it, too, yes, but he trusted her with his life. And if she had wanted to kill him, she would have plenty of opportunity during work hours… Untraceable poison in the coffee. Fine shreds of glass in his cup of tea. But it was not her style. Not that he had ever done anything overly nasty to her. Fine, he kept messing with her private interests as he needed her assistance at all hours when a crisis arrived. But she had never so much as rolled her eyes at that. She never complained. In fact, she seemed to like it. So not Anthea. But then – who? A family member of someone who had died in Sherrinford? Improbable but not impossible. And what was he supposed to do? Get a bodyguard? Because of a darn flower? That was ridiculous. His alarm system was excellent. Well, his new one at least… _Someone_ had disabled all his security when he had broken in with his best buddy to scare the crap out of him… But now it was working again and more secure than ever before. Nobody could come into his house without setting of an alarm that would be audible in the entire quarter he lived in.

But still he felt unsettled the entire day and had severe problems to focus on his work even though he called himself silly because of worrying about a sodding flower.

*****

“I swear I didn’t put it there, sir!” Adam Johnson said, gesturing uncontrollably. “I just left the car for two minutes to get coffee. It was locked!”

Mycroft stared at the item in question in horror. Not that it was a horrible thing per se. Who could say that about a box of the finest chocolates available in London – brandy truffles and nougat hearts and amaretto marzipan among them? The package was sealed. Probably not poisoned. But who knew?! And how the hell had it been put onto the back seat of his car early in the morning? And, of course, by whom?

He had thought, three days ago, that he could trust his driver. And he still did. Johnson was not lying. He had no idea who had put the present into the car.

“It’s alright,” he said and finally scrambled onto the back seat, gingerly setting the gift onto the seat next to him. He had examined it quite thoroughly. There had been a red ribbon around it! And that had not been applied by the manufacturer. His secret… whatever... had bothered putting it around the box. No message, no card. But this present hardly looked like a threat. In fact, Mycroft’s mouth watered when he grabbed the box again and saw small pictures of all the treats it contained on the backside. But he couldn’t dare eat that, could he? What if they were poisoned indeed? He could have one or two examined thoroughly though. He was the unofficial boss of the Secret Service after all. He would ask Anthea to organise it.

The car finally drove off and in a rather bumpy way at that – obviously his faithful driver was a bit shaken. Not nearly as much as Mycroft himself probably, though.

He had stared at the rose for days now when he had come home from work. It had started to wilt in the vase in which he had put it. Just as flowers did. Its smell was still very… appealing though.

Someone sent him flowers (in a disturbing colour) and expensive chocolates (in a more than questionable way). Who? And why?

It was a mystery. And he had no idea how he was supposed to feel about it.

*****

“Definitely not poisoned,” Anthea cheekily said with her mouth full, rolling her eyes in sheer pleasure.

Mycroft was gaping at her. “I did not suggest you should _eat_ them! What if-…”

“Ah, sir, don’t worry. They’re delicious. Nobody opened this package after buying it. Can I have one more?”

Mycroft shook his head in awe, and a smile was pulling at his lips. “Go ahead. But if you drop dead, I _will_ say _‘I told you so’_.”

“I can live with that.” Anthea put a caramel chocolate into her mouth and hummed in what seemed to be close to ecstasy. “So… Secret admirer is it, sir?” Her eyes were sparkling.

He shrugged awkwardly. “It would seem so. There was a, um, rose left on my doorstep first.”

Her pretty mouth was forming a surprised ‘O’ now. “Damn! But nobody knows where you live! Perhaps a neighbour?”

Mycroft highly doubted it. It wasn’t as if he had ever spoken with anyone living near his house. There were no direct neighbours anyway. The next house was about three-hundred metres away, and his property was surrounded by thick vegetation. He didn't spend much time in this area anyway. He went to work early and came back late, and he didn’t have a dog to walk the streets with. If he was at home at the weekend, he stayed inside or in his secluded garden. No, definitely no neighbour.

“No camera above the door?” Anthea inquired.

Mycroft had never found that necessary. Nobody ever visited him and apart from his brother, nobody had ever tried to break in. Well, Sherlock had nicked a key ages ago. Mycroft had known it and never said anything or changed the locks. Because he secretly wanted Sherlock to drop by? Unconsciously – and pathetically – he might have wished for it. But not the way he had shown up with Doctor Watson and his accomplices… Anyway, nobody without special skills could get past the alarm system. Perhaps he should consider a camera now though. But nobody had tried to get inside the house after all. The rose had been put onto the doorstep, and the chocolates had been smuggled into the car.

Hesitantly, he reached out to grab a sweet treat himself. If Anthea had eaten it and tasted nothing but sinful deliciousness, he could probably dare to do so as well. The trifle melted on his tongue, and he rolled his eyes a bit when he saw Anthea’s fond look. He was a gourmet after all. He worked hard and as a reward, he sometimes, very rarely, indulged in the finer things in life. Well, gastronomic ones at least. Expensive, rare whiskey, creamy, dark chocolate cake… He never overindulged though. Too well he remembered the torturing chubbiness of his youth. People laughing at him… Nobody laughed anymore these days. Well, apart from his brother and his sidekick… Eurus too, certainly. But in the latter case, he’d had the last laugh after all. She would never run free and play her games anymore. Of course – in a way she had won though. She had Sherlock's attention. Something he had been craving for for the past three decades. Perhaps she _was_ still laughing, after all.

Anthea tilted her head with a questioning look at his suddenly sour expression. He shook his head.

“Never mind. Let’s get to work.” He wouldn’t find out who his new benefactor was by eating chocolates. Until the person’s next move, he would have to wait. Perhaps nothing more would happen. And he didn’t hope for anything else, did he?! He was a busy man. He really had other things to do than musing about mysterious admirers, if he should really have one.

“What if it’s Lady Smallwood?” Anthea shocked him with a rather gleeful expression before she proceeded to go back to her desk, grinning over her shoulder with a wink.

Mycroft shuddered. He would probably have to change continents. But he doubted it very much. It was way too subtle for her… And he had made pretty clear that he was not interested when he had been crazy enough to meet with her for a drink and had spilled said drink when a cheeky foot had moved up his calf under the table. That’s why he hardly saw her outside of meeting rooms anymore.

But who it was who deemed him worthy of being shown such attention, he did not know for the life of him.

Before he turned to starting with his day, he took another chocolate, thinking he hadn’t indulged in anything nice for a very long time now, and as weird as the circumstances were, he had to admit he felt a tiny bit flattered that someone showed him so much attention. It was a bit nice, really. Well, at least in case the chocolates were really not poisoned but he would surely find out soon, he thought while the treat was melting on his tongue...

*****

“I did not order that.” Mycroft stared at the white box in his assistant’s hands.

Anthea put it onto his desk. “I thought so. Usually you tell me to get lunch for you. It was just delivered. With a card… And I did already try to find out who paid for it. No credit card. Cash. In a plain white envelope, stating this address. Nobody saw who left it there. They have no surveillance.”

Mycroft swallowed and grabbed the card with shivering fingers. For two days, there had been no sign of his secret… stalker? Was it one? The chocolates had been fine, obviously. Neither he nor Anthea had suffered any fatal consequences or even so much as a grumbling stomach from eating them.

He had been brooding over the possible identity of this person whenever he had been undistracted by work matters. First of all – man or woman? He hoped for a man as he was gay. But did it matter? He didn’t want to have a… significant other. He didn’t even like humans. Fine, he was one himself but… he had never felt like a real part of humanity. Humans were loud and smelly and awful – and stupid, compared to him. There were a few exceptions of course. One more prominent than the others… But all in all, mankind was just an obnoxious plague to him.

And what if that man, if it was a man, was ugly as hell? Mycroft hardly thought himself to be overly attractive but he was probably not too repulsive, either. He was clean and looked after himself; he was very tall and kept himself in shape – which didn’t keep certain people from teasing him with weight jibes… Anyway. Even if that man was handsome like a Greek god, he would still be so much dumber than him – the Sherrinford debacle aside – and Mycroft would not know what to do with him.

Yes, there had been some men in his life. Ages ago – at uni, and never serious. He had hardly ever met one of them a second time. That’s how incompatible with people he was. He had given it up eventually. Being with someone had never appealed to him, and apart from certain physical pleasures, these encounters had always failed at reaching the actual goal he had been pursuing – distracting him from a certain someone he would never have.

But now a stranger was forcing his attention upon him, and this person knew that Mycroft was working in the Diogenes today so he either knew Mycroft's work schedule or had followed him here. And above all, he also knew about Mycroft's favourite Italian restaurant. It was most disconcerting.

The card did not give anything away. Something one could buy in any gift shop. Showing Buckingham Palace. The words in neatly written block letters were ‘BON APPÉTIT!’

“It’s not from you, is it?” he surprised himself and Anthea with asking.

“Sorry?” She gave him a disbelieving look. “You’re a looker, I give you that, but you might remember that I am happily married to a doctor, a _female_ one I might remind you. Why would I pretend to be after you?”

“To make me believe I’m someone who’s worth being after,” slipped out of Mycroft's mouth, and he blushed furiously. “I’m sorry, Anthea. I… This confuses me thoroughly.” A looker? Yes, sure. A sucker, more likely… To blame his trusted PA!

Her look got softer. “I absolutely understand. And by the way – of course you are. Worth it. If you weren’t, you know, _you_ , someone would have snatched you ages ago.”

“Thank you very much,” Mycroft said dryly, but of course he knew what she meant, and his thoughts had been very similar just seconds ago. He was just not that much into people...

She smiled at him. “Open it up, won’t you? Since the chocolates were not poisoned, this will be fine, too. And it’s not a bomb. It was checked.”

“I’m relieved,” Mycroft mumbled, and opened the box from ‘Giuliani’s’. And wasn’t in the least surprised when he found his favourite dish. Spinach Lasagne. With salmon. Some paper tissues.

“Whoever sent this likes you very much,” said Anthea, and her voice was gentle.

It would seem so. But Mycroft did not know anyone who actually liked him, including his own family. Even Mummy hated him nowadays, having reached for his hand in Sherrinford or not. She didn't even bother him with phone calls anymore – their trips to the prison were organised by Anthea. Or… was Mummy the secret donor? Nonsense. She wouldn’t know what he liked to eat at that restaurant. And he might not have much – or any – experience with romantic relationships, but this all did scream ‘romance’ and he felt torn between being excited, terrified, and touched.

“Eat your lunch, sir,” Anthea said softly, and Mycroft nodded.

Yes. He would eat it. And then wait for the next move of his secret admirer.


	2. Chapter 2

With each step, his legs seemed to get heavier and his heart was beating faster. Not because he was so hopelessly untrained that his heart was about to give up the ghost any minute. No, it was because he hadn’t been here for a long time and had not seen his brother for what seemed like an eternity. And not just his brother – Doctor Watson would be there too, in all probability, if he didn’t have to work at the clinic. He would actually face him and Sherlock together for the first time since Sherrinford. And his brother might have forgiven John Watson for his violence against him, but Mycroft had not. And he would never understand why Sherlock was so forgiving towards this man – and his late wife. To unconsciously make up that he had not been able to save Victor Trevor from Eurus? That explanation sounded like hocus pocus but it was the only one he could think of. And it didn’t make him feel any better that he knew that if it was true, it meant that in the end it was his fault that Sherlock had not cut ties with the Watsons when Mary had shot at him and John had manhandled him so he had almost died from Culverton Smith’s hands. It was not a nice thought, and he was close to turning around and leaving the house he had never liked. But needs must, and he needed Sherlock's help. He was still a detective after all…

The tableau he noticed when he entered the living room – he had used his key to get into the house as the very last person he wanted to meet was ‘Get out of my house, you reptile’-Mrs Hudson so he couldn’t have used the doorbell – was as he had expected it.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, his phone in his hand. The doctor had occupied the chair next to his, having his laptop on his knees, certainly writing his inane blog. And the little girl – what was her name again? – was sitting in the middle of the room on a thick blanket, a doll in her chubby fingers, blowing bubbles and screeching when she saw him.

“Mycroft. Now that’s a surprise. And how did you get in?” John managed to look sour and curious at the same time.

“Doctor Watson. Sherlock.” He nodded at the man without bothering to answer him before he turned his attention to his brother.

Sherlock had looked up from his phone, an indifferent expression on his handsome features.

Would Mycroft’s heart just once _not_ skip a beat or two when he looked into his little brother’s indescribable eyes? Would he ever _not_ have to swallow at the sight of his beauty? It was a miracle that Sherlock had never detected that. But then – Sherlock despised him so much that he probably didn’t pay much attention to his reactions. And still he had chosen to point the gun at his own head instead of shooting him when he’d had the chance. Another unsolvable mystery… But not why he was here…

“Mycroft,” Sherlock rumbled. “Long time no see.”

He looked strangely serene in his all-black ensemble of trousers and shirt and raven-coloured curls, with his pretty face as pale as freshly fallen snow and his lips as red as strawberries. Mycroft almost hid his face in his hands at his embarrassing thoughts – poor man’s poetry at its best...

“Yes, really,” John threw in. “Had started to believe you’d fallen off the earth.”

He had probably hoped so. Mycroft refrained from telling him that _he_ had hoped that John would disappear the moment he had been told that Sherlock had moved in with him all those years ago…

“What is it this time, on this beautiful Friday morning?” the annoying doctor continued. “A rogue agent, having run away with the Queen’s underwear?”

 _Morning_ … It was almost eleven. Probably the Baker Street inhabitants had only just gotten up… “Most amusing,” Mycroft mumbled, surprised that Sherlock's lips had not even twitched. In fact, baby brother was staring at him as if he was about to dissect his brain just by looking. When had Sherlock looked at him like this the last time? In Sherrinford, maybe. But he had not seen the truth then, thank God. “Someone was in my house,” he burst out, suddenly being thrown back to the terror of the early morning.

“Really?” asked the doctor. “One of them wearing clown makeup, the other one-…”

“No. Last night. While I was sleeping,” Mycroft interrupted him sharply, his hand cramping around his umbrella. This annoying little man. Nobody made his blood boil hotter.

“And did what?” Sherlock asked him.

 _Watched me sleeping?_ Mycroft thought. _Outwitted my new alarm system to enter, came into my bedroom. Left another present._ “Someone put a… dressing gown onto the bed stand. A present. There were others before.” And in the end, his… stalker had come into his house. And Mycroft had been startled beyond words when he had seen the neatly wrapped gift. The robe had been of exquisite quality, in a colour that resembled the blue of his eyes.

“Tell us,” John demanded. “And finally sit down, would you?” He impatiently pointed at the client’s chair. A new one, thanks to the explosion.

Mycroft nodded and sat down even though he loathed being bossed around, by a man he couldn’t stand no less. Then he took a deep breath and told Sherlock and his obnoxious friend the story of the secret admirer.

*****

“Wow. This person must know a lot about you,” John said, shaking his head. “The car you use, the unofficial government building you’re working at. And then they broke in even though your house is Fort Knox! And I thought only _Sherlock_ could do that!”

He would have missed it if he had focused his attention on the doctor at this moment. But he had been looking at Sherlock, who had listened to his story with a stoic face, not interrupting him once, rolling his eyes or claiming it to be boring, which was unheard of. The barest of flinching at John’s words. His eyes darting to the left corner of the room for just one second.

And Mycroft was glad that he was sitting. Otherwise he would have stumbled in shock. His throat went completely dry. He should have known it, latest this morning. But this possibility had never occurred to him. It was too crazy...

“Mycroft?”

He forced himself to look at John. “Yes?” he croaked. His head was spinning.

“Is there a special occasion? For today’s present? I mean they risked a lot by actually breaking in.”

Thank God, John had missed it – both his and Sherlock's reaction and his own words of truth. “Um. Well. It’s my birthday, actually,” he quietly said. A day he usually didn’t pay any attention to. Mummy’s phone call aside. Which would probably not even happen this year, upset at him as she was...

“Oh, really? Never knew that. Congratulations!”

“Thank you, John.”

“Sherlock. Won’t you say ‘happy birthday’ to your brother?” John said sternly. “Should have done that when he came in.”

“Happy birthday, Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbled, his voice flat.

“Thank you, brother mine.” Mycroft had no idea how he was feeling. Perhaps today was indeed his birthday, apart from the date. Perhaps he was jumping to wrong conclusions though. Perhaps the motivation behind all this was not what his suddenly hopeful heart had conjured up. But what else should it be? A cruel joke? No. Sherlock's reaction told him something else. Little brother was thoroughly embarrassed. And if it had been another prank, Sherlock would have gleefully admitted it now… To please his buddy – instead of having not told him anything about it, obviously.

“You really are alike, you know?” he heard the doctor say in a tone of utter exasperation. “Great at blanking people out or putting them on mute, as Sherlock calls it. I asked you if you have nice plans for today? This problem aside?”

“Oh, um. I will have dinner. At my favourite restaurant. An Italian one.”

“That’s aces,” beamed John. “Sherlock can join you then. I mean, he’s your family, right? I bet until then he’s found out who your stalker is and can present you the solution. It’s not nice to spend your birthday all alone, is it?”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock again, who had seemed to become smaller in his chair. Just once in his life, John Watson had a good idea. “Would you do that?” he asked, softly. “Try to find out who it is and have dinner with me?”

Sherlock stared at him, his cheeks slightly flushing. “Um. Yes. I can do that. John has to work all day. I will solve your case.”

“Of course you will. Seven, at ‘Giuliani’s?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes. Fine. I’ll be there.”

When Mycroft had said goodbye and walked down the stairs, he was feeling as if he was floating. Or hallucinating...

*****

The last bit of doubt Mycroft had had vanished when he saw his brother staring at the rose in the middle of their table, his cheeks flushing once more. And of course he had known that he couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that he had not misjudged the situation. That Sherlock had, after all, not been responsible for all those presents. That his flinching had meant something else – perhaps just guilt for having broken into his house to scare him. And that he had only agreed to meet him here because John had told him to do it – and that had been remarkable in itself as John Watson had hardly ever been Mycroft's biggest fan.

But there was no way to misjudge his reaction now – little brother staring at the rose, mesmerized. It had been a hard task to even find a black rose. Mycroft had visited several stores until he had found it, and it had cost much more money than he would have ever suspected spending on a dead flower… Of course it was worth the price. Any price.

“Why black?” he asked Sherlock when his brother had hung up his coat in the wardrobe and sat down. Their table was the one Mycroft always asked for – placed at a very secluded corner of the restaurant. He had booked the date weeks ago. His birthday meant nothing to him, or so he kept telling himself, but somehow he always went here on this date. Sentimental nonsense, probably. But for the first time, he would not have dinner on his own here.

“It was dark-blue,” Sherlock corrected him. He looked absolutely edible. Black trousers, very tight. A new, turquoise-coloured shirt that matched his eyes. His hair slicked back, stressing his special, angular features even more, making him look like some 40s movie star.

“Both means death,” Mycroft said, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh,” Sherlock mumbled with a sheepish grin. “I… didn’t think to look it up. I simply wanted something unique and unusual. Not a red one – too kitschy. And yellow and white…” He shuddered visibly.

Mycroft smiled. This was surreal, wasn’t it? After wrecking his brain for hours about who had sent him a rose that seemed to threaten him with an untimely ending, he was now talking to his ‘stalker’, who was actually his little brother. Who was… in love with him? Was that even a possibility? His smile slowly died, and he felt like panicking. He had gotten it all wrong, hadn’t he? He was an imbecile after all. What if Sherlock had just sent and brought him these items in a weird way of reaching out to him to repair their brotherly bond? What if nothing about this was romantic? If he said something wrong now, Sherlock would freak out and leave, and their brotherly relationship would be doomed forever!

“An unusual flower for the most unusual man,” Sherlock continued, and then he seemed to notice Mycroft's condition – and misjudged it thoroughly. His eyes widened. “You hate it, don't you? A flower that means death, how stupid is that? And I got it all wrong in Sherrinford and you don't… like me like that.”

Mycroft slumped in his chair in relief. He shook his head vehemently before Sherlock could flee for real, only for a different reason than he had feared. “No. I do. I really do. Do _you_?” So Sherlock _had_ seen what he felt for him when he had thought he had to die. And he had missed that his brother felt the same?

Sherlock closed his eyes in what could only be relief as well. “Yes, Mycroft. Always. Since I was… fourteen? I thought… it was something you would never even consider and so… I began to be ghastly to you so you wouldn’t understand.”

Mycroft reached up and rubbed his forehead. Dear lord. What an ocean of misunderstandings. Wasted time. Unnecessary guilt. He had punished himself for desiring his little brother. It had begun a bit later for him then. Sherlock might have been sixteen or seventeen. It had creeped up on Mycroft rather gradually until there had been no way of denying that he longed for his own baby brother. While said brother had obviously leered after him albeit treating him like an enemy ever since he had left home to go to Cambridge. Wasn’t it typical? A Holmes thing? Not just to fall in love with the only one that matched their intellect and was not an unbearably stupid goldfish – against the morals of society, not even mentioning laws. But to totally miss the point about the other one feeling the same as they were brilliant and extraordinarily smart and everything – but total idiots when it came to sentiment…

“We’re both morons,” Sherlock stated dryly, and Mycroft nodded.

“Yes. The worst kind. But… Now we can do better?”

A vehement nod was his answer. “I want to. I didn't dare to… talk to you so I thought of another way to reach out to you. Sorry if it troubled you.”

Sherlock had gone to such lengths to deliver his presents. Had come to his house before dawn to leave the rose at his door. Had followed his driver and waited for an opportunity to put the chocolates onto the back seat. “I loved the chocolates and the lunch you sent me. Scared me to death with the dressing gown, which is beautiful by the way,” Mycroft smirked. “Does my alarm system still work at all?”

Sherlock gave him a sheepish grin. “Sure. Didn’t damage it. It can still be improved though.”

“Obviously.” They shared a smile and Mycroft felt as if he would break out in tears any moment. After this horrible event at Sherrinford and all the nasty feelings following it, his life had made a breathtaking turn to the better. Would they make that work? Could they even? Well, he sure as hell would try his best. Starting tonight.

*****

“So… Did the food match the one of your dear Angelo?” Mycroft asked when they stepped out of the restaurant after being guided out by a beaming Sonny Giuliani.

“Almost,” smirked Sherlock, putting his coat collar up against the chilly wind. He had taken the spaghetti carbonara while Mycroft had stuck to his beloved lasagne. “I hope… you will go there with me soon.”

“Of course. In a brotherly capacity only I’m afraid.” Why had he even said that? Did he really think that Sherlock wasn’t aware of the dangers of an incestuous relationship? They had just had dinner together and not so much as touched each other’s hand. Sherlock clearly knew very well how important secrecy was in this case. And baby brother despised being treated with what could be called – albeit accidental – condescension, especially by him.

But Sherlock was not offended. “Naturally. Angelo still thinks John and I are, you know, an item…”

Mycroft grimaced. That was not an image he liked that much. Or at all. “That’s not surprising, considering how you used to be attached at the hip,” he couldn’t help but mumble, cursing himself the next moment. Did he _want_ to mess this up before it had even begun?

But again Sherlock reacted calmly. “It never has been that way. It’s hard to explain. My loyalty towards him. It might have to do with Victor.”

Mycroft winced. Exactly what he had feared. And how could he blame Sherlock for sticking with John Watson if it had been _his_ choice to not tell him about Redbeard a long time ago? Sure, Sherlock had been the one who had chosen to forget both best friend and little sister, but Sherlock had grown into a man decades ago. Mycroft should have talked to him about it. Had it even caused Sherlock’s excessive drug use in his teenage- and young adult years? Or had that rather rooted in Sherlock's unhappy love for him that Mycroft had managed to miss? Neither possibility was in any way pleasant.

Sherlock sensed his discomfort and slightly touched his arm. “Don't do that, Mycroft. There is no use in blaming yourself, or me. We must leave this all behind if we want to be, you know, happy.”

He almost breathed the last word as if he had never thought he would use it to describe himself. Which was probably true. He had never been happy, as far as Mycroft could say. Neither had he been. Could they even pull that off? It seemed like a foreign concept. But in the end, this evening promised to be a whole new beginning for both of them. “You are right,” he said quietly. “Will you come with me then? To my house?”

“With pleasure. Oh, sorry.” Sherlock pulled out his phone, which had just vibrated with a text. He grinned slightly when he read it before firing off a reply. “That was John. He wants to know if we managed to not kill each other with a fork. I told him we’re fine and you’ve invited me over to discuss your case.”

“Good.” If this worked out, Sherlock would have to find plenty of excuses regarding his whereabouts in the evenings. Or full weekends. They could even go on vacation together. But John and Mrs Hudson had to be deceived or they would worry about Sherlock's wellbeing. He was known for self-destructive behaviour after all.

As annoying as it was that his soon-to-be lover would have to make stuff up like a teenage girl that was dating a boy her father didn’t approve of, it was also nice to know that these people cared about his brother so much. The people who had respectively beaten his brother up and called him, Mycroft, a reptile… He would never forgive John for that and he would never like Sherlock's landlady (and vice versa). But he had to accept Sherlock's decisions. He had always tried to meddle in his brother’s life and nothing good had come out of it. He had always missed the moments when Sherlock had really needed help the most in the end, and he knew very well that Sherlock had never liked his overprotective behaviour. If an eye-to-eye romantic relationship between people as complicated and difficult as they both were should have a chance, he would have to accept Sherlock the way he was. He would have to learn who his brother really was in totally new ways. And he really couldn’t wait to do it.

Even when they had been estranged, he had loved Sherlock from the bottom of the heart he had only recently denied to possess. His brother’s safety and health had always been the most important matter for him. And that would only get stronger now, but he would have to learn to not try to change and control him. It would be a tough task… But he knew better than anyone else that a Sherlock rubbed-the-wrong-way was a Sherlock who would run from him, and that had to be avoided at all costs.

Sherlock tilted his head and smiled at him, and Mycroft wondered if his brother could read him like a book. It would make things much easier. And challenging…

“I’ll call my driver,” he said, his voice sounding croaky.

Sherlock nodded. “Fine. Does the car have a privacy screen?” he added, cheekily.

The prospect of enjoying any kind of body contact with his brother in the car made his mouth go dry. “It does indeed,” he rasped out, and Sherlock surprised him with a low chuckle, and Mycroft would have loved to kiss him on the spot.


	3. Chapter 3

For all the cheekiness, Sherlock went all shy and tense when they were actually sitting in the car, separated from the driver by black glass. The windows were tinted, too, so nobody could watch them. But when they drove off, Sherlock nervously fumbled with his collar and could hardly look at him.

Of course Mycroft would have never forced himself onto Sherlock, but shy and cautious or not – it didn't take Sherlock longer than two minutes to get closer to him and sweetly kiss his cheek. Mycroft reached up to put his palm onto Sherlock's hard cheekbone. They shared a long look – and then they moved simultaneously and their lips brushed against each other.

It just felt surreal. He was kissing Sherlock. His baby brother. The man he had wanted – and never thought he could have – for decades. And the real miracle was the expression of sheer awe in Sherlock's eyes when they parted after the rather chaste kiss. Had a part of him still believed that this was yet another cruel prank – and that somewhere John Watson was having the time of his life knowing that he was being had?

But the emotion he saw on Sherlock's face was genuine, real, and deep. All he could see was affection when Sherlock urged him to kiss him again by putting a large hand on the back of his head. This time, Mycroft let his tongue map Sherlock's lips, and they parted to let it in, and a shiver of joy went down his spine when he heard and felt Sherlock gasp and he closed his eyes when his tongue was meeting its counterpart. He tasted pasta and wine and toothpaste and pure Sherlock, and he lost himself in the tangling of their tongues and the meeting of their lips. Every breath his brother took, every thumping of the heart Mycroft could feel beneath the hand he had put on the detective’s chest, every touch of their lips was engraved in his mind. And his heart. Nothing had ever felt so right.

He tumbled a bit in the moving car when Sherlock pulled back. “Too much?” he asked, worried.

But Sherlock smiled. “Not nearly enough. Just needed some air.”

“You will get all the air that you require,” Mycroft promised him, and the meaning was not lost on Sherlock.

He would never push him to do anything. He would never ask him to abandon his job, or his friends, to spend time with him. He would give him all the space that he needed and never ask for anything that wasn’t given freely. Also, of course he would always be Sherlock's big brother and therefore feel the urge to protect him. But for the sake of this relationship, of being equals in this as this was the only way it would work and make sense (as the only person who hated being bossed around more than Mycroft did was Sherlock), he would try to restrain this protective streak so it wouldn’t come in the way of growing together as lovers.

And his heart jumped with delight when Sherlock nodded ever so slightly and then came back to claim his mouth in another deep, loving kiss.

*****

No words were spoken when they entered his house and took off their coats. The air seemed to be sizzling with electricity when Sherlock turned to him, a determined expression in his eyes. This wouldn’t be about taking it slow and being cautious about not destroying their – already seriously troubled – brotherly relationship along with the one they both wanted to build. Mycroft had realised that when Sherlock's hands had gone astray in the car, mapping his back and rubbing his soft but only slightly rounded belly, making goose bumps break out all over Mycroft's body – he couldn’t even remember when he had been touched like this the last time. Had he ever? Certainly not with that much reverence. With every kiss, his brother had gotten bolder and more confident, and the shyness had vanished more with every gasp and every desperate sigh either of them had elicited.

This was Sherlock to a tee. The scientist, the explorer, the doer. An Alpha male, searching for new experiences, not wanting to hear a ‘no’. And of course Mycroft was as far away of saying ‘no’ to him as he was to asking Lady Smallwood out for a drink. The greatest gift he could imagine had just fallen into his lap and his voice of reason had thankfully shut up for a change. Sherlock had gone to great lengths to be here like this with him, and if that didn’t prove that he was serious about it, what was supposed to be?

Kissing and pawing at one another, Mycroft guided Sherlock upstairs. He was too old for clumsy groping on his couch. Doing this head over heels or not – he wanted to do it right at the first try.

For once, Sherlock simply followed him, his hand intertwined with Mycroft's. Such a simple gesture – holding hands, and yet Mycroft had never done that before. It would have felt out of place and ridiculous to do it with anyone else. But with Sherlock, it was like pieces of the same puzzle fitting together. Sherlock's palm was warm and soft but also firm and strong, and that his brother allowed him to take his hand like he had done when Sherlock had been a little boy – did he even remember that? – under these new circumstances meant the world to Mycroft. He was still Sherlock's big brother after all, and he had just feared that he could seem too overpowering again but Sherlock did not seem to think so. He also didn't make any sarcastic remarks or even teased him about taking charge; he simply tagged along and let himself be led into Mycroft's large bedroom.

They both shed their shoes and looked at each other in the dim light of the almost full moon that was shining through the oversized window, and Mycroft almost lost it at the determination in Sherlock's mercurial eyes and the white teeth that were shining between these parted, bow-like, kiss-swollen lips. A moment later Sherlock cupped Mycroft's face with his hands and kissed him once more in an urgent, greedy way that made Mycroft's knees go thoroughly weak.

*****

He was watching, mesmerised, as Sherlock opened the buttons of his shirt after freeing him from his waistcoat rather impatiently and shedding his sleeve garters, making them fall onto the floor with a ‘clonk’. Sherlock had batted his hands away when he had tried to undress him, too, and Mycroft figured that Sherlock was going through a fantasy he had obviously indulged in for quite some time. He was fine with that, fine to give up control for a change, but he was also nervous. Would Sherlock like what he saw – him, bare of his three-piece-uniform? All he had to offer to his lean, muscular and well-trained brother was a hairy, middle-aged body that was hardly completely out of shape but far from trim and model-like all the same.

Sherlock tutted and slightly shook his head as if Mycroft's thoughts had echoed through the room somehow. And when he had freed him from the silky shirt, he lowered his head to nuzzle his face against Mycroft's furry chest and let his tongue search for his nipples while pushing and guiding him backwards against the bed until he fell in a rather inelegant way but landed softly on a nest of pillows and his thick blanket with Sherlock crawling on top of him instantly to intensify his explorations, and Mycroft thought that he should probably just relax about his looks.

Mycroft allowed himself to be petted and lapped at and having his nipples sucked more or less gently, the bulge in his trousers growing rapidly beneath Sherlock's crotch. In fact, he couldn’t remember having ever been this aroused, and it was hardly surprising given that he was being caressed and explored by the most gorgeous creature to have ever walked the earth.

“Not fair,” he eventually complained though when Sherlock had reached his sadly soft stomach. These were the first real words that had been uttered since they had started snogging in the car.

Sherlock looked up to him, his lips even more swollen than before, and tilted his head with a questioning look. “Want to see you and touch you too,” he clarified, and Sherlock's lips quirked into a happy smile, and then little brother hurried to get rid of his shirt.

The smooth skin, the small, dark nipples, the plane muscles – it was all beautiful, and yet Mycroft had to force himself to not wince at the sight of his new lover’s upper body. Too prominent was the scar that reminded him of Sherlock almost losing his life thanks to the horrible person that had been Mary Morstan. There were others, signs of a life lived recklessly and without regard for his own health, but the shotgun scar made Mycroft's heart clench in agony. He did try to hide his reaction but of course the detective didn't miss it.

But again he showed no exasperation, instead his eyes were full of understanding when he said, “Everything you see made me become the person I am now. My choices shaped me more than the memory of Eurus and Victor did.”

And had led him to Mycroft in the end, for which he would forever be grateful. But all the pain baby brother had had to endure. For the Watsons. For being an avenger for undeserving people.

“Stop it, brother,” Sherlock rumbled. “There’s no worse mood killer than pity.”

“Don’t pity you. Never. Beautiful boy.” Mycroft gently pushed his brother over so he could hover over him.

Sherlock took his hand and placed it on his chest, directly above the padded skin of the shot wound. Mycroft could feel his heart throb under his palm, and he bent forward to claim Sherlock's plush lips in another kiss before he proceeded to start his turn of the exploration and show his brother just how amazing he was to him.

*****

Mycroft couldn’t remember having felt this alive ever before. This… real. His synapses were on fire as he was tasting and scenting and all but eating his little brother. Sweet skin, so soft under his caressing lips. Nipples turning into hard little pearls under his tongue. Goose bumps breaking out under his tender touching. And a very hard – and impressively big – male organ grinding against his own needily while little brother was writhing under his ministrations.

He took his time with Sherlock's top half until the younger man all but pushed him away to wriggle out of his pants. Mycroft smiled but his eyes were glued to Sherlock's erection and he licked his lips unconsciously. “Want to tell me anything with that?” he teased his lover, and grinned when Sherlock groaned. “Ah, I see. Not wasting any time, are we?”

“Yes we are!” complained Sherlock, pinching his shoulder. “Please. Need it. Need you.”

How could anyone resist such a plea? Especially after years of having been told to keep his big nose out of his brother’s affairs. He couldn’t help but regret to have missed Sherlock's feelings for him deeply. How much pain would it have spared them, especially Sherlock? How much time could they have spent like this – loving one another? Instead they had been at each other’s throats all their adult life. Had hurt one another in so many ways – Sherlock with his alleged contempt for him, his job, his clothes, and his weight, and Mycroft with lording his importance over him, criticising his way of life. What a bloody waste…

It was futile to think about that, Mycroft knew it, and it wasn’t the time, either. It was a time for action – action of the illegal but delicious kind. And frankly, Mycroft couldn’t wait to taste Sherlock's musk, to feel him swell and leak against his tongue, and finally, Mycroft rearranged himself on the bed so he could take the moist, reddened crown of Sherlock's generous cock into his mouth and give it a probing suck.

Obviously, he had not forgotten everything about sex as Sherlock's moan echoed from the walls, and Mycroft was glad once more that he didn’t have direct neighbours. Encouraged by the reaction, he gave himself to the task of finding out how to drive his brother crazy – in a completely new way.

He lapped at the slit, tasting slightly bitter but appealing fluid. He teased the delicate fraenulum with the tip of his tongue while working the shaft with his right hand, storing every tiny reaction his efforts got out of Sherlock away for later use. This was about making baby brother feel great, and he would learn to do this the best way he could to ensure that his new lover would come back for more.

Gradually, he took more of the long, slightly bent cock into his mouth, triggering his gag reflex but overcoming it smoothly. Sherlock had long ceased to stammer any coherent words, what flew from his lips now was nothing more than a guttural ‘ngggg’ that made Mycroft smile around his now fully hard new toy before he bent his neck so he could deep-throat his brother, almost choking at the thick intruder. And he had trouble swallowing instead of doing something very undignified when Sherlock came down his throat without warning.

His eyes watering, he helped Sherlock through his crisis by fondling his smooth, round balls and licked him clean when his penis had stopped spurting and was merely twitching back into its non-erect size.

“Give me… a minute,” Sherlock rasped out, collapsing into the pillows, and Mycroft smiled and scrambled upwards on the bed so he could hold him, and he closed his eyes in bliss when Sherlock's long arms closed around his waist and his head fell heavily against Mycroft's shoulder, searching for a closeness Mycroft was so very willing to provide.

*****

Panting as if he had been spending hours on his treadmill, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's arms, forcing him up to rest against his heavily pounding chest once more. Sherlock was licking his lips in a most catlike and naughty way, content with himself as he should be after his performance.

Mycroft’s body was still tingling from his brain-blowing orgasm and he could feel every kiss and lick that Sherlock had applied to his middle-aged body with obvious enthusiasm. How Sherlock had sucked his nipples! How he had licked down stripes across his chest! How he had swirled his devious tongue in his navel! And how he had sucked him off, first with a hint of teeth but learning to cover them quickly as it was his habit. Little brother had applied just the right amount of pressure to his balls by weighing them, pulling at them, even slightly squeezing them, always staying on the right side of discomfort. Basically, Sherlock had been over him as if he was an all-you-can eat buffet, and he had obviously loved everything he had done to him.

“Happy birthday to me,” he said,” he said, squeezing Sherlock's arm. “You really are a miracle.”

“Was about time you saw that,” Sherlock rumbled, kissing his shoulder.

Mycroft smiled and then he glanced at the dressing gown Sherlock had left him in the morning. All those efforts to please him. Such thoughtful gifts. So much attention. He would have to think of something nice for little brother as well. “Can you stay?” he asked him, cautiously. They had time, of course, but he longed for waking up next to baby brother.

“I can. John and Rosie will go to his sister early in the morning, staying at her place for the weekend.”

“Sounds great. But… that’s not a coincidence, is it?” Dear lord. Sherlock had planned this all. In detail! Mycroft had been supposed to find out who his stalker was exactly when he had found out.

Sherlock looked up and winked. “I actually thought you’d know it as soon as you realised that someone had been in your house. Took you a bit longer.”

“Cunning. What if I had not caught you… No, I didn’t catch you looking guilty at all. You let me see it. And then… Then you had planned for John to suggest us spending the evening together.”

“Well, I am quite good at predicting what people will do. John is so very dull in that regard. And if you still hadn’t gotten it, well, then you’d have been too dumb for me,” Sherlock added with a shrug, and yelped and batted his hands away when Mycroft tickled him for his insolence, making them slump together in a pile after a few delightfully silly minutes of breathless giggling.

He was happy beyond words. Nobody in the entire world had ever received a better birthday present. He urged Sherlock to raise his head so he could kiss him soundly on the lips. “Thank you, my beautiful little stalker.”

Sherlock hummed. “Hope you won’t let me get away again.”

“Never.” Was it too soon? Well, apparently not – after more than two decades of secret mutual pining… “I love you, little brother.”

Sherlock beamed at him so brightly it made his heart clench. “Love you too, slipping old man.”

Mycroft sighed playfully. “I’ll have lots of work to do with you, won’t I?”

“You’ll love it,” Sherlock promised him, and Mycroft nodded.

Yes, he would love it. Beyond words.

The End


End file.
